


Solace

by Cephy



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Children of Earth Compliant, Comfort, Episode: s03 - Children of Earth Arc, Episode: s04e13 Journey's End, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-30
Updated: 2010-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 12:51:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cephy/pseuds/Cephy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the events of Children of Earth and Journey's End, a Doctor and a Captain walk into a bar....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solace

Jack waved to the bartender again, since he wasn't drunk enough yet not to notice how uncomfortable the bar stool was.  Universal constant, that.  Jack had yet to find any civilization in the whole of time and space that had invented a comfortable bar stool. But, he supposed, the purpose of the stool was not to be comfortable, it was simply to provide a place for the weary and disillusioned and heartbroken to drink themselves into a stupor-- and at that purpose, he had to admit, they excelled.

There was a cute blond giving him the eye from across the way. He considered it-- for about three seconds, and then he gave the guy a wink and a quick shake of the head. Blondie pouted-- again, for about three seconds, and then he moved on to find someone a little more interested. Not that Jack wasn't _interested_. He'd have to be dead, permanent-like, not to be. Just then, though, it didn't feel-- right.

  The first indication he had that someone was behind him was a hand clapped down solidly on his shoulder.  "Here you are, then."

  Jack tensed, but then he turned around enough to get a good look at the newcomer and felt himself smiling despite-- despite everything.  "Doctor!"

"Captain." The Doctor smiled back at him, but it was a thin, strained expression. Jack studied him, seeing the tired droop to his shoulders and the tightness around his eyes.

"You look," Jack said firmly, "like a man who could use a drink."  

The Doctor studied him in return, and snorted.  "You look like a man who's drunk quite enough already."

  "Not yet, but I'm working on it."  He lifted his latest glass to the Doctor then drained it dry, setting the empty glass heavily back onto the bar.  "So, what's a guy like you doing in a place like this?"  He tried for a leer, he really did, but he was pretty sure it fell flat halfway through.  

The Doctor pulled out his psychic paper and waved it some vague pattern.  "Just-- following a call.  I got the distinct impression I might be needed here."

  Jack snagged the paper out of the Doctor's hands, ignoring the token squawk of protest, and opened it.  Inside was a mess of angry, dark lines, hints of sketched faces, jagged-edged letters that formed no words he could make out.  A portrait of grief and rage and guilt.  "Is this supposed to be me or you?" Jack asked quietly.  

The Doctor looked at him sharply-- then drew a breath and let it out in a gust.  "Hard to tell, I suppose."  

Jack glanced around, but saw only the same bar patrons that had been around all night. And the night before, and the one before that.  "You here by yourself?"

  "Yes," the Doctor said slowly, then again, more decisively.  "Yes.  I-- took Donna home."

  There were depths to those words that Jack didn't understand, but the look in the Doctor's eyes as he said them was all too familiar.  There was something brittle about the Doctor, something a little desperate about the usual manic gleam in his eye.  "I'm sorry," Jack offered.  

The Doctor gave another of those gusting sighs, then he stepped in and sat at the stool next to Jack, grimacing only a little as he squirmed to try and settle himself.  "You know what, I think I _could_ use a drink," he said, and lifted a hand to flag down the bartender.  

***

  Jack woke up wrapped around someone, comfortable and warm, and for a moment he thought: _Ianto_.  But there were so many things wrong with that thought, things that nagged at him as he came further and further out of sleep.  This didn't feel like his bed, or Ianto's.  He was still mostly dressed-- he thought he even still had one of his boots on.  The heartbeat under his ear was doubled, and he was pretty sure that wasn't just the hangover talking.  And Ianto--  

Ianto was dead.  

He opened his eyes.  He'd never been in the Doctor's bedroom, for all the times he'd tried to get there, but somehow he still recognized it immediately for what it was. It was a small space, draped in fabric and well-cushioned, comfortable, like a big pillowed bowl moulded around them.

The Doctor, beside him, was still in his suit, though the tie and jacket had apparently gone missing at some point. He was lying sprawled, half-under Jack, breathing the slow, too-even breaths that probably meant he was awake too.  

"Can I stay here for a while?" Jack heard himself ask.  

"Yes," was the Doctor's quiet answer, then even fainter, "please."  

Jack let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. Listening to that double heartbeat, he burrowed down into the cradle of the bed and the curl of the Doctor's outflung arm, and closed his eyes.


End file.
